Nichols stared at him. “I can't…”
Howell grabbed him and jerked him close. “Listen to me. Even if you live you'd be nothing more than a loose thread that needs cutting. Especially when they discover that I'm not dead. The only chance you have is to tell me the truth. Do that and I'll do what you need.”
Nichols slumped against the concrete ring. His words stumbled out on bright red bubbles.
“Drake and I were part of a special squad. Wet work. Communications by cutouts only. One of us would get a phone call ? a wrong number, only it wasn't. Then we'd go to the post office where we had a rented box. The orders would be waiting.”
“Written orders?” Howell asked dubiously.
“On flash paper. Nothing more than a name or a place. After that, we'd meet a contact and he'd fill us in.”
“In this case, the contact was Grimaldi. What were your orders?”
“To kill you and get rid of the body.”
“Why?”
Nichols looked up at Howell. “You and I are the same. You know nobody gives reasons for things like that.”
“Who is 'nobody'?”
“The orders could have come from any one of a dozen sources: the Pentagon, army Intel in Frankfurt, the NSA. Take your pick. But with wet work, you know that the source had to be right up there, real high. Listen, you can throw me to the rats but that's not going to get you a name. You know how these things work.”
Howell did.
“Does the name Dionetti mean anything to you?”
Nichols shook his head. His eyes were glassy.
Howell knew that no one except Marco Dionetti ? the man who had opened his home and extended him his friendship ? knew that he was traveling to Palermo. Dionetti… with whom he would have to have a little chat.
“How were you to report that this mission was successful?” Howell asked Nichols.
“Drop off a message at another post office box ? no later than noon tomorrow. Number sixty-seven. Someone will come by… Oh, Christ, it hurts!”
Howell brought his face very close to Nichols's lips. He needed one last thing from Nichols, and prayed that the soldier had enough strength left to give it up. He strained to hear as the soldier finally let slip his most precious secrets. Then he heard the soft gurgle of the death rattle.
Leaving the lamp where it was, Howell took a moment to compose himself. Finally he hoisted the corpse and dropped it over the side of the well. Quickly, so that he wouldn't have to listen to the rats, he pushed the heavy lid in place and locked it down.
CHAPTER TEN
At first glance, the Bioaparat complex might have been mistaken for a small college campus. The slate- roofed, red-brick buildings were accented with white-trimmed doors and windows, and were connected to one another by flagstone walks. Dew sparkled in the grass beneath old-fashioned carriage lamps. There were several quadrangles with stone benches and precut concrete tables where employees could enjoy lunch or a game of chess.
The effect was slightly less bucolic during the day, when it was easy to see the razor wire topping the twelve-foot-high concrete wall encircling the compound. Then as now, guard patrols with machine guns and Dobermans were visible. Inside some of the buildings was more elaborate, sophisticated security.
There was a reason why no expense had been spared when it came to Bioaparat's appearance: the facility was open to international bioweapons inspectors. The consulting psychologists had recommended that the facility evoke a warm, familiar environment that was nonthreatening yet that commanded a level of respect. Many designs had been studied; in the end, a campus layout had been chosen. The psychologists had argued that most of the inspectors were or once had been academics. They would feel comfortable in such surroundings, which spoke of pure, benevolent research. Having been put at ease, the inspectors would be more likely to allow themselves to be guided along, rather than play medical detectives.
The psychologists had been right: the multinational teams who had visited Bioaparat were impressed as much by the ambience as by the state-of-the-art facilities. The illusion was fostered by familiarity. Almost all the equipment at Bioaparat had come from the West: American microscopes, French ovens and test tubes, German reactors, and Japanese fermenters. The inspectors associated such tools with specific research, primarily into Brucella melintensis, a bacterium that preys on livestock, and a milk protein called casein, which stimulates high growth in various seeds. Scores of workers dressed in starched white lab coats going about their business in pristine laboratories completed the desired effect. Having been lulled by the sense of order and efficiency, the inspectors were prepared to take what they saw in Building 103 at face value.
Building 103 was a Zone Two structure, built along the lines of a matryoshka doll. If the roof were removed, one would see a box-within-a-box complex. The outermost shell was reserved for administrative and security personnel who were directly responsible for the safekeeping of the smallpox samples. The first of the two inner shells was a “hot” area that contained animal cages, specially designed labs for work with pathogens, and giant, sixteen-ton fermenters. The second shell, the actual kernel, held not only the vaultlike refrigerator where the smallpox was stored, but rows of stainless steel centrifuges and drying and milling machines. There, experiments designed to ferret out the mystery of Variola major were conducted. The nature of the tests, their duration, the amount of smallpox used, and the results all were tabulated in a computer that only the international inspection teams could access. Such safeguards had been designed to prevent unauthorized use of smallpox in experiments such as gene splicing or replication.
The inspection teams had never found evidence of anything other than approved research in Building 103. Their reports praised the Russian scientists for their attempts to discover whether or not smallpox might hide the key to diseases that still plagued mankind. Finally, after reviewing the formidable security arrangements ? which relied almost exclusively on electronic and video surveillance, and so kept the need for human beings to a minimum ? the inspectors signed off on the integrity of Building 103. After all, not so much as a gram of variola had ever been unaccounted for.
Russian President Potrenko's call to the Special Forces training unit outside Vladimir was logged in at 1:03 A.M. Six minutes later, one of the duty officers was knocking on the door to Colonel Vassily Kravchenko's cottage. At half past the hour, Kravchenko was in his office, listening to Potrenko's detailed orders to install an undetectable quarantine that would seal Bioaparat from the outside world.
A short, stocky man, Kravchenko was a veteran of Afghanistan, Chechnya, and other places where his Special Forces had been sent. Wounded in action, he'd been relieved of active duty and sent to Vladimir to oversee the training of new recruits. After hearing what Potrenko had to say, the timing of the call gratified him: he had two hundred soldiers who had just completed their field exercises. With them, he could seal off the entire town of Vladimir, much less the Bioaparat complex.
Kravchenko answered Potrenko's questions quickly and succinctly, assuring him that within the hour, he could have his men in position. No one inside the compound or in the town would be any the wiser.
“Mr. President,” he said. “What are my exact orders if someone attempts to exit Bioaparat after the quarantine is in place?”
“Give one warning, Colonel. Only one. If he resists or attempts to escape, use of deadly force is hereby authorized. I need not remind you why.”
“No, Mr. President.”
Kravchenko was all too familiar with the hellish concoctions stored in the ultrasecret holds of Bioaparat. He had also witnessed chemical warfare in Afghanistan, and its results were indelibly printed on his memory.
“I will execute your directive as ordered, Mr. President.”
“And I will expect to hear from you when the cordon is in place, Colonel.”
